Ladies Man
by Megii of Mysteri OusStranger
Summary: From his evolution from Tom Riddle to Lord Voldemort, seven women who influenced his life the most. Canon-compliant. Now with Extras!
1. Mother: Life

Ladies Man

_From his evolution from Tom Riddle to Lord Voldemort, seven women who influenced his life the most. Canon-compliant._

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_**Mother—Life**_

Tom Marvolo Riddle has visited his mother's grave a total of three times: Once, when he was finally old enough to understand. Once, when he found out he was a wizard. Once, after he had killed his paternal family. Choked with weeds and moss, the headstone reads, in a most lonely manner:

Mrs. Riddle

Mother

D. 31 December 1926

It was all the orphanage matron had known about her. For years it was all _he_ knew.

She gave him life, carried him for nine months, bestowed on him a name, and from her he inherited magic and an ancient bloodline—he should probably be thankful, he knows. But he isn't; he's just bitter. The face he has isn't his, and neither is his name, and he hates both for belonging to someone else first. His heritage is a great gift but also a great burden. His classmates may revere Slytherin's blood, but Tom has seen the rotted hovel his uncle lives in, and knows there's nothing glorious about it and there probably hasn't been for a very, very long time.

The first time he saw his mother's headstone, Mrs. Cole stood behind him as if she expected him to cry, or talk to the person buried below his shoes, or perhaps pray. He doesn't, and decides early on that '_I won't end up like you_. _This barren grave _won't_ be mine._'

The older women like to speculate that Mrs. Riddle died of a broken heart, it's "romantic." It makes good gossip when they start talking about him when they think he's not listening; so Tom swears love off too. His mother is proof that love kills. He won't ever let anyone get close enough to kill him.

The second time he visits her, he isn't even sure why he goes. He has an hour to get to the train station and it took thirty to get here, and still he stands there and stares at her headstone, which has only worn more over the years, dandelions crowding its base like some God-given bouquet, because he knows that no one has ever laid a flower here, least of all himself.

He fancies that he gets his magic from his father, but at that age he doesn't know for sure, and he hates not knowing. Still, in his young, barricaded heart he wishes she were present so that he had someone who would smile at him and embrace him and tell him how proud she was like in the _families_ he sees when he spies in through people's windows.

But, Mrs. Riddle isn't there to embrace him or be proud of him, so he'll just have to be proud of himself, and he sets off with that in mind. After a while he comes to believe it.

The summer of his sixth year, he finds and murders his paternal family. Patricide. Things previously clouded come to light, and the picture revealed is painful and grotesque. It's one of the few times he lets go enough to cry.

"How _could_ you?" he groans to the headstone, his fingers digging into the wet earth. His fingers are streaked with dirt, mud clumped under his nails, and he wants to tear through the earth until he reaches Mrs. Riddle—_Merope! Mummy!_—so that he can rip the decayed flesh from her miserable bones and destroy her.

He feels so robbed, so betrayed, so _abandoned_, which doesn't entirely make sense—for how can you be betrayed by someone you never knew?—but there it is, regardless, hot and sour, like old milk. He never knew her name before_. _It sounds like a little girl's name. He had not known his mother's story, had never been able to picture her face or imagine her upbringing, not until he had glimpsed it through the eyes of those who had. And it is horrible from every angle, like something out of a bad dream.

It's shameful that his muggle blood is nobler than his magic heritage. It's awful that he shares more than his name with his hated father—his _unwilling_ father—he has to share his _face_ too. It's not his name. It's not his face. They're hand-me-downs, just like his clothes.

"Why with _him_? Why with that horrible _muggle_? Why!" He shrieks. There's water on his face and he forces himself to believe it's raining, though he can't feel moisture on any other part of his body.

"He didn't think you were good enough for him, and still-_still you-_! Why wasn't _I_ enough for you? What made him so much better than _me_? I wasn't good enough for him either!" His spine arched like an animal, he presses his head to the grass and screams out years of pent-up emotion.

He wishes he could hate her; he wants to hate his mother. Yet, he can't gather up the motivation to actually do so, because he understands, in a roundabout way. He can understand why she was so desperate to leave that stinking shack, with the snake nailed to the door, and get away from that madman that was her brother. Growing up with a family like that must have been worse than the orphanage, and Wool's Orphanage is awful.

The up-and-down bob of a yellow lantern alerts him to the approaching grave keeper. Snarling and sniffling, he stands on wobbly legs.

"I'm not coming back, never," He hisses with serpentine lips. "I won't end up like you. I will never love, and I will never _die_. I'm not sorry, for _anything_, and I'm not thankful to you for giving me this life."

He leaves without saying goodbye, and more than a body is left buried in the dirt.

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_Notes:_

_So, an exploration of the Riddle character in seven parts! I always love getting to play around with Merope, and getting to fumble around with Tom's relationship with her was soooo enjoyable. I think it's often underplayed in young!Tom fics. He may not give a damn once he's older (ooh, my childhood was awful, please shag me, haha), but he was a child once. A wicked child, but still a child._

_Updates weekly!_

_Read, review, and all that jazz, my dear snarklings!_

_Megii_


	2. Mrs Cole: Learning

Ladies Man

_From his evolution from Tom Riddle to Lord Voldemort, seven women who influenced his life the most. Canon-compliant._

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**_Mrs. Cole—Learning_**

Tom Riddle will never admit in a million years that he considers old, sour, catty, Mrs. Cole his greatest teacher. Not ever. But, the fact remains.

It was Mrs. Cole who started him on reading and writing when he was still too young to attend school, but too smart to be left without something to ponder. She never expects him to have to cook for himself, being a boy, but he knows how from watching her when it is his turn to help set the tables. It's thanks to her that he knows how to fold his clothes and tie his shoes; and how fast it is safe to run before his legs can't keep up and he falls. She taught him nursery rhymes, lullabies, and fairytales, and keeps the worst of the bullying at bay. She taught him how to handle extravagant silverware—and it's thanks to that lesson that he never makes a fool of himself during Professor Slughorn's parties, when there's too little food and far too many forks.

She doesn't like him, no one at the orphanage does, but she cares in her own way. If she hated children so much, nothing was stopping her from quitting. So, he knows she cares. In her own way. She's a mother goose and when she walks they goslings line up behind her, but wander off and get into trouble as soon as she stops.

Tom is obsessively tidy. Merlin forbid one of his books, or a leaf of paper, shows up somewhere it's not supposed to be; or that his clothes ever lie in a wrinkled heap on the floor. He gets that from her; though, no one knows and he'll never tell. He is orderly; chaos has no place in his quarters and is not welcome there unless he's in a fit of rage or in a rare state of depression. Dirt is even less welcome. If he has to tolerate second-hand things, he's going to at least ensure that they're _clean_. Mud on the carpet, fingerprints clouding the mirror—he doesn't tolerate these things any more than Mrs. Cole does, and she runs a very tight ship.

But, he supposes, even more importantly than what she _did_ teach him, is what he learned from what she _didn't_ teach. Tom knows to never drink alcohol and to never tell the truth when it can lead to trouble. A white lie will always be better than a black truth. The only exception is when people try to fib to _him_, and they learn early on never to do so.

He knows that the world isn't fair and that people are mean, and that the only way to survive is to be mean in return. In this society, justice is corrupted, open-eyed instead of blind, as it should be. People see skin color, and nose shape, and red blood, and judge as they see fit, based on that. He wants that to change; and if it will only move in that direction by his hand then he will rearrange the stars.

He knows that women are good for only one thing and that men only want one thing, and that those two things are the same thing.

Tom knows that Mrs. Cole is actually _Ms_. Cole. She isn't married, nor has she ever been. "Missus" commands more respect than "miss," however, and implies wisdom, and that's what's important. Being "_Mrs_. Cole" shows that she's in charge and knows better than the rest of them. One day _his_ name will command respect. It's a common name, and he hates it, but he will make something of it just like Mrs. Cole.

He knows that the Bible and the Church is just a bunch of nonsense. The Bible might be "God's book," but it was written and edited by man's hand; and the Church lords over the people with a critical eye and fear-inspiring words. He refuses to believe that he and all the other orphans are bastard children bound to burn in Hell for eternity. He doesn't believe that sitting around and wishing for things to happen, will accomplish anything.

Mrs. Cole may not have taught him awe-inspiring things: she never taught him the names of the constellations, or how to make the Draught of Living Death, or how to turn a mouse into a teacup. She's a simple, muggle woman; not a scientist or a powerful witch, but that doesn't make her lessons any less important. And it is for those reasons that he lets her die of old age while too many others are destined to, one day, vanish from off the streets to never be seen or heard from again.**_  
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_Notes:_

_No talking scene this time. Maybe I should have added such... oh well. I'm happy with it regardless._

_It is a generally accepted fan notion that Tom keeps a clean room. He is not messy, not a slob, he doesn't leave his bed a mess when he wakes up, doesn't this, doesn't that, etcetera, etcetera. But where did he get this habit, is he just a naturally tidy person? I think it is definitely a character trait he adopted from Mrs. Cole (or at least someone who works in the orphanage. I just chose Mrs. Cole because she is such a recognizable character. Could've used Martha, like _Theta Serpentis_, I guess)_

_Deny it all you want, you know it to be true! Like her or not, she is definitely a big influential character in Tom's life, she runs and cares for the orphanage he grew up in, there's no way she couldn't have affected his life in at least one positive way. I just built on that, good and proper like._

_Read, review, and all that jazz, my dear snarklings!_

_Megii_


	3. Amy: Love

Ladies Man

_From his evolution from Tom Riddle to Lord Voldemort, seven women who influenced his life the most. Canon-compliant._

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**_Amy—Love_**

Amy Bennet is orphaned at six years old. Tom is eight when she arrives at Wool's Orphanage with two suitcases and a doll whose featureless porcelain face has seen too much of her late mother's cosmetics. It is obvious from the get-go that they do not, and will never get along. He can't stand her whining, the way she _tattles_ on him at every opportunity, screeching for Mrs. Cole in order to get him in trouble, and the way she tries to end every argument with "My mummy loves me!"

"Your _mummy_ is _dead_!" he hisses back.

"No, she's not!" Amy insists, hiccupping and crying, snot oozing down her baby face, "My mummy is an angel in Heaven, and she's always with me in my heart, and she's watching over me, and she loves me! And _nobody_ loves _you_!"

He pushes her down upon hearing that, his teeth gritted angrily, and—oh _dear_! Now poor, pathetic Amy's bum is _sore,_ and her dress is _wet_ and _muddy,_ and her hands and knees are _scraped_ and _raw,_ and isn't that _just _so, so _awful_! So, of course, she _tattles_, the little swot, and no amount of fear he can instill in his fellows will keep Mrs. Cole from taking the paddle to his backside until he's too sore to sit, and sending him to bed without supper that night.

Sometimes he dreams of stealing the paddle and whacking Mrs. Cole with it until _she_ is the one shrieking and sobbing. He daydreams of hitting Amy with the paddle much more often, which is almost pleasant until he remembers how she squeals and cries until her face is red like a ripe apple. He thinks that hitting Amy won't be worth it if it means he'll have to deal with her awful sniveling. He hates it when people cry. Crying has never solved a single thing, and it always puts him in a bad mood when the babies down the hall cry in the night and keep him from sleeping.

One of the most annoying things about Amy is that no matter what he says, no matter how many times he trips her up, pushes her down, and verbally belittles her, she never gets scared of him. She never learns to "stay _away_!" not even when he smashes in her doll's white, alien face. She keeps coming back like a glutton for punishment, needling him and whining and crying and talking about her _love_ for her _precious_ mother.

It makes him _sick_ with jealousy.

He hates her. Hates her tattletale nature, and hates that she has memories of her mother while he doesn't; and that she persistently has to shove that fact right in his face again and again. She's like a _stain_ that he can't wash out.

Opportunity presents itself the summer of his ninth year when the entire orphanage takes a field trip to the seaside. He lures Amy and a slightly older boy named Dennis Bishop—he hates Tom and Tom hates him, Dennis is always fibbing, always telling lies, always spinning tales, and always blaming Tom for every accident that happens—and makes. them. pay.

Dennis will never lie again.

Amy will never speak of her mother again.

If they try to tell on him, their tongues will knot up in their mouths.

The blood seeping onto the salt-crusted stone is unintentional, but it fascinates Tom like few things ever have, and he tries to discern whose blood is whose, though in the end he can't detect or see any difference.

Amy cowers away from him after that, _finally_, like a kicked puppy. She and Dennis stick close to one another, tongues tied, and whenever he enters a room try to get as far away from Tom as possible. He is glad of it, so, so glad.

Though when he begins going to school, returning only for the summers, he watches their skittishness slowly diminish as they grow used to not having him around. He reminds her of who he is on more than one occasion, corners her and winds her up until her eyes spin in her head and she kicks like a wild horse, though it's really not as if she could ever forget.

And if one day Amy and Dennis find themselves back in the cave by the sea, well, let it just be said that Tom Riddle had a love for the sentimental.**_  
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_Notes:_

_We know little enough about Amy's character that she is portrayed in several forms in the fandom. I've read stories where Tom torments her and Dennis in the cave by the sea for no good reason, and others where he has an excuse. I don't think Tom is the kind of person to cause pain to people who haven't done anything to him, though that doesn't mean his reasons can't be fickle. That might change as he gets older, but as a youth I really don't feel that this is the case.  
_

_Read, review, and all that jazz, my dear snarklings!_

_Megii_


	4. Minerva: Leadership

Ladies Man

_From his evolution from Tom Riddle to Lord Voldemort, seven women who influenced his life the most. Canon-compliant._

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**_Minerva—Leadership_**

At Hogwarts, Tom Riddle tolerates orders from only one person: Minerva McGonagall, the Head Girl for Hogwarts' Class of 1944.

She isn't especially pretty, and she's too feminist for almost any boy to be truly attracted to her. However, she's smart, and she's strong, and the younger years look up to her whenever they need help, even if she does intimidate them a bit. He doesn't mind taking orders from Head Girl Minerva, really, because she knows what she's doing. She can be passionate, but above all she's a woman of cold logic and she doesn't let House or blood prejudices get in her way, trampling both beneath her like grass. Unlike her Head Boy counterpart, Cornelius Fudge, who's both an idiot and a coward; Tom really can't see why Dippet made Fudge Head Boy in the first place, as he has no good leadership skills whatsoever, and it really is a wonder that anyone looks up to him at all.

She consistently talks down the more adventurous prefects, even when they all cast their votes against her. She sways them all to her side in the end, like a lone Juror crying "Not Guilty!" when all the others are ready and eager for blood—or a school dance, as the case may be. Sometimes, she even manages to honestly convince Tom that she has the right of things.

She is as wise and just as the goddess that is her namesake, and, if the rumors are true, just as prude. Not to say that she's never dated, but she's a no-nonsense woman, and if hands start wandering then her temper is something terrible to behold. Tom has never been on the receiving end of her wrath, but he's witnessed it coming down on others and he admires how quickly people bend to her when she's angry.

She looks rather pretty when she's furious, and he's sure that she'd be a right hellcat in a duel, hissing and spitting with her shoulders high and head low, claws extended.

Those that get caught breaking or wiggling around her rules are quickly snapped back into place. They look up at her with eyes wide and alarmed and are quick to appease her with "Yes, Miss McGonagall," and "Sorry, McGonagall," and "It won't happen again, McGonagall." And indeed those she scolds usually don't act out again, cowed by her, though there are always the more daring, unrepentant troublemakers to challenge her authority.

He has seen her merciful, and he has seen her very nearly cruel. For one year Hogwarts is her empire and she rules it with a fist that is iron where it needs to be and feather-soft where it needs to be. Tom admires her steadfast leadership and, secretly, models himself after her. He is cruel where she would be harsh and less cruel where she would be forgiving. He observes the way she carries herself and how she speaks and _when_ she speaks. She doesn't interrupt and hates to be interrupted. She'll make a good teacher, though she presently has bigger dreams.

From her he learns how to feign confidence in himself, even when the only things he knows about himself are things he hates.

As Head Girl, she seems to tower over the prefects, even if she isn't particularly taller than any of them, so even when they are all standing it creates the illusion that they are looking up at her. They have fewer students acting out this year than there have been any other year previous, though he supposes the commotion with the Chamber of Secrets may have a small part in that. Nevertheless, Minerva is to be respected and admired, and he has every intention of outdoing her next year.

"So, Mister Riddle," she says, "Would you please present the evening patrol schedule you have come up with for the dungeons?"

He smiles disarmingly, and every girl but the Head Girl blushes. "Of course, Miss McGonagall."

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_Notes:_

_Not much to say about this one, except that Professor McGonagall can be scary. Thus, why I like her._

_There's a 'roundabout Twelve Angry Men reference in there, but I couldn't _actually_ reference it because the play wasn't written until the fifties. _

_Could've been longer, I guess, but... meh.  
_

_Read, review, and all that jazz, my dear snarklings!_

_Megii_


	5. Bellatrix: Laughter

Ladies Man

_From his evolution from Tom Riddle to Lord Voldemort, seven women who influenced his life the most. Canon-compliant._

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An early post because I'll be too busy tomorrow! My lil' bro is graduating.

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**_Bellatrix—Laughter_**

Contrary to popular belief, Lord Voldemort is not naturally a violent man. A killer, certainly, there's no doubts about that, but when it comes down to it he prefers to manipulate and seduce his enemy with words and truth twisting than have them bloody and sobbing and stuttering at his feet. Drawing out someone's suffering bears no rewards and he finds it to be in bad taste; it reminds him of the Nazis.

Myrtle's death was quick and painless, as were the deaths of his paternal family, and the passing of Hepzibah Smith. After he had shattered Bertha Jorkins' mind, he killed her instead of letting her live on with the pain. Frank Bryce was killed swiftly and untormented. Charity Burbage was not eaten alive. It is his pureblood followers that enjoy torture and torment, and he tolerates their endeavors because it suits his purposes. On the occasion that he does torture, it is more often his Death Eaters that feel his wand and not his enemies. He is merciful, in a way, not that his enemies will ever acknowledge that.

Lord Voldemort has never met someone who laughs at others' pain with such glee as Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black. And it is, indeed, with glee, because the symphony that spurts from her mouth cannot be legitimately called happiness or joy, it is too deep, too dark.

She's incredibly malicious and sadistic, even more so than he was at her age. She's not quite mad, but she's certainly walking the road of the potentially insane. She flips attitudes faster than a light switch. The only thing that runs deeper than her hate is her blood, and as a Black that blood runs as old and deep as the Thames River. Like many purebloods, she is bred and brainwashed for it.

Bellatrix is a fox, beautiful and sly and as much of a trickster as any Slytherin can be. She is not venomous, not at all, but the tear of her bite is just as damaging to those on the receiving end of it. He first meets her in the late 1960's, after she has been married to his former dorm-mate's son, Rodolphus Lestrange. She is lovely and lively and laughs often and her pride is through the roof. The war Lord Voldemort is brewing is his first, and with sultry words, a strong stance, and an admiring eye it is not difficult to rally people to his cause without even having to make threats.

Were she not already married, he doesn't doubt that she would be using her every last feminine wile to try and woo him. As it is, she still simpers and flirts, though he isn't actually interested in having _that_ sort of relationship with _anybody_. She aches for a life beyond that of a trophy housewife. When his followers' adoration finally matures into idol worship, she is the first on her knees, licking the soles of his shoes like she was born to do it, so heady with pleasure that she giggles uncontrollably.

"My Lord. My Lord. My _Lord_."

She speaks it like it is her mantra, like they are the only words she has ever spoken. He knows that her husband is jealous, but too afraid of the mysterious, suspicious circumstances surrounding Lestrange Sr.'s death. No one who remembers Tom Riddle lives for much longer.

Lord Voldemort has killed, and he has tortured. However, it is not until he witnesses Bellatrix's laughter at the slaughter of muggles, that he begins to see what is so funny about it. Watching the masses scurry around like headless chickens is endlessly amusing. How they try to follow his tracks like old storybook detectives; except, this criminal is much too good at what he does to be caught by the average auror. Their fits of frustration are funny and he enjoys the terror splattered on their faces when they are brought, hog-tied like animals, to his feet. The only one that seems to enjoy it more than himself is Bellatrix, who takes a Cruciatus Curse and turns into sport. Observing her, in time he finds it sporting too, like pulling the wings off of beetles, or reliving the time when he hung Billy Stubb's rabbit from the rafters.

When he isn't around for her, though, Azkaban claims her, and when he finally finds his way back to England, she has ceased to be an alluring vixen and is instead a mad dog. Her beauty is dead, her cunning faded, she snarls and bites, and though she is unfailingly loyal she chomps at her leash when she doesn't get her way. As he is the one holding the leash and his mind is rotted from a decade of isolation, his tolerance for that is minimal, and many, many times he holds her under the Torture Curse and laughs as she squeals and scratches and screams and, he suspects, orgasms.

And he laughs.

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_Notes:_

_And at last we leave Tom Riddle behind! I know some of you have been waiting for Bellatrix, and here she is finally. I think the next woman will greatly surprise you all._

_Voldie-crazy as I have been these past few months (I think it's seven now. What the hell, man), I've looked back over all the Harry Potter books and you know, I __don't get the impression that__ Voldemort gets off from torturing people. His Death Eaters certainly do, but, re-reading, he very much favors mind-games. Everything else is just a means to an end. He even seems to avoid fights and battles and lets his followers do all that dirty work for him. It seems to be a very fan-conceived notion, though I'm not about to protest it because it makes him scary (and I love scary)._

___Hmm, the first segment of this series is still the best installment. Maybe someday I will go back through all these and tweak them, so they're better. Put my best foot forward, and all that. Not today, though._  


_Until next time, my dear snarklings!_

_Megii_


	6. Lily: Loneliness

Ladies Man

_From his evolution from Tom Riddle to Lord Voldemort, seven women who influenced his life the most. Canon-compliant._

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**_Lily—Loneliness_**

Lord Voldemort is not oblivious to the feeling of being lonely. He had felt it often enough as a child, and felt isolated in his intelligence as a grown man and Lord, but being alone in a crowd is very different compared to simply being _alone. _There had always been people around, as much as they disgusted him, people to talk to, to touch, to experience and learn from and teach_._

Then, one Samhain night, that had all changed.

_"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"_

_"Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside now."_

_"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—"_

_"This is my last warning—"_

_"Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy… Not Harry! Not Harry! Please—I'll do anything—"_

_"Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!"_

He had acted too rashly, he thinks, looking back. He researched too little and underestimated the enemy. What did he know of Lily Potter that he should have beforehand? He knew little beyond her physical appearance, her blood status, and Severus Snape's affection for her. He deemed it irrelevant, and for his misstep paid an awful price:

He has lost _everything_.

In the wraith-like form he possesses following his demise at Lily Potter's hands—and the situation really _was_ all rooted in Lily and less her son—he can neither communicate nor feel, and his old teacher, Slughorn's words come back to haunt him.

"_Existence in such a form…few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable_."

And, he finds, not living but merely _surviving_ as a leech, a _parasite_, incapable of much rational thought when his mind was bound to that of an animal's—this really is worse than death. Even a snake's natural solitary nature cannot numb his burning need for human contact, for relief from the endless isolation! There are weak suicide attempts on his part even. Torn to shreds and preserved as his spirit is, none are successful. How does a spirit kill itself anyhow when the only avenue to the physical world was through parasitic possession? He can command a mouse to allow itself to be caught by a hawk, but he doesn't die with the rodent.

He had not been a person with a medically-legitimately stable mind before, but he was not mad then, the inherited psychopathy not so unharnessed. The decade of loneliness, the sensory deprivation, _that_ drives him right off the cliff's edge. Solitary confinement does not work well for prisoners' mindsets, and it is no better in this setting. Human beings, no matter how twisted, are not meant to live alone.

For several years his bitterness and hate are focused on Lily Potter, as he wonders what it was she did to her son to cause this to happen to Lord Voldemort. However, Lily is dead and so his thoughts shift to her son, the prophesized child, Harry Potter.

A sense of time is something he does not have, drifting through the darkest of Albania's forests. It could be a dozen years since his defeat; it could be a hundred. He has imagined a thousand ways to kill Harry Potter; and has thought up a hundred different speeches, some elaborate and enchanting, others short and scornful. Some of the scenarios he imagines have Harry die in a flash of green, some in an explosion of red, and in some he possesses the boy like he possesses the animals. On a few rare occasions, he imagines convincing Harry to join up with him, and making the boy his apprentice. He doesn't need such a person, being immortal, but it could be a fun way to pass the years. Sometimes he imagines strangling Harry Potter with his own two hands, like a muggle.

As the seasons pass, however, the minds of the animals he leeches off of leave their imprints on his psyche. He begins to forget who he was and who he is. Things like buildings and cars and magic wands and the voices of people seem like nothing more than the dreams that come before waking. Was he ever human? It seems as if he has always been a snake; he can hardly imagine having been another creature. Eat a rodent or bird or nest of eggs. Get some sleep. Warm in the sun. Eat. Sleep. Warm. Eat. Sleep. Warm. When the current host dies, move on to the next one.

When Quirinus Quirrel comes so does remembrance, so do human touch and human voices, and '_I am Lord Voldemort_.'

The change is sudden and raw, and painful in some ways. Society has become a foreign, alien creature, and he no longer remembers how to function in it. The person he was before is not half as dangerous as the person he has come to be now. If a person makes one wrong move, one wrong step, he snaps without warning and without control. Even if he knows that it will detrimental to his purpose, he lashes out violently against the person who set sparks to the kerosene that is his temper. He can feign a soft voice and a still stature, but his rage is tearing and raw and unrestrained. They squirm and squeal under his wand like forest rodents wrapped in a snake's coils. Sometimes he can almost smell the Albanian forest again on his tongue, and taste fur and warm flesh, whole.

On numerous occasions, when the night is deep and his Death Eaters are laughing and screaming and sniveling, he finds himself longing to be alone.

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_Notes:_

_I think a couple of you saw this one coming!_

_The conversation between Lily and Voldemort was taken directly from Deathly Hallows. _

_You know, I've rarely read a fic where an author takes those ten years Voldie was without a body into real account, or at least serious detail (though _You Know Who?_ continues to surprise and delight me, so if any other author will do that, it'll probably be _What-Ansketil-Did-Next_). There are stories where from the time of his fall to his rise in the graveyard there seems to be no significant change in his psyche other than that he's super-focused on killing Harry, but in reality that simply isn't possible (nor is it possible for a person to have zero maturity difference between 17 and 70. Oh well, the things we do for the sake of plot. Buuu!). I saw a National Geographic show on the impact solitary confinement has on prisoners and did some of my own research into the subject and, well, all there is to say about it is "holy cuss." There's just no way Voldemort came out of that even half way sane, and we all know he was more unhinged than a door broken off its frame to begin with. Isolation does awful things to people and when they're released back into society they're even more dangerous and violent than before. Solitary confinement is actually considered torture._

_Crazy, huh?_

_And Harry Potter the "Boy Who Lived?" Pfft, it should totally be the "Mother Who Saved!"_

_Until next time, my dear snarklings!_

_Megii_


	7. Hermione: Light

Ladies Man

_From his evolution from Tom Riddle to Lord Voldemort, seven women who influenced his life the most. Canon-compliant._

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___Note: This isn't intended to be Tomione-ish, though I realize it can be taken as such even without squinting, but try not to think too hard on it. No part of this series is meant to be _that___ kind of romantic._  


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**_Hermione—Light_**_ (Un-beta'd)_

Lord Voldemort never makes the same mistake twice, and that goes for his second war, too. He makes sure that the mishaps that happened in the first war do not repeat here. He does not underestimate the Light. He does not dismiss Harry Potter's best friend as someone insignificant and unimportant and not worth researching like he had Lily Potter. Golden Girl Hermione Jean Granger is #2 Undesirable for a good reason.

He digs up every bit of information on her that he can—she is the only daughter of two dentists that none of his Death Eaters can track down; she almost had a younger sister, but her mother miscarried; muggle-born; a Grffindor; she had been petrified by his basilisk in her second year; she took every single class Hogwarts had to offer in her third year; she possesses a pet half-kneazle; she briefly dated Viktor Krum in her fourth year; was the one who came up with "Dumbledore's Army" in fifth as well as fought alongside Harry at the Department of Mysteries; and many other things besides.

When she steals Slytherin's Locket from that bigoted toad, Dolores Umbridge, Tom isn't afraid to admit to himself that he prefers it when Hermione wears him, as opposed to Potter and Weasley. He feeds on Potter and Weasley's negativity and fears, but he feeds on Hermione's desires, her insatiable curiosity. When the golden chain slips around her lovely neck, he settles extra heavily between her breasts and creaks in satisfaction. She has such a beautiful mind, and, like with the boys, he doesn't even have to spin lies to dig into her mind and sow his seeds. He has seen inside her head and knows everything she knows, all her little experiences and all her little plans regarding his Horcruxes.

He also knows there is no virus harder to uproot than a simple _idea_.

_'I can teach you such _wonderful_ things, Hermione.' _He croons to her when the night is deep and sleep evades her relentlessly._ 'Things that aren't even Dark; no, we don't even have to delve into the Dark Arts if you don't want to. I know all sorts of things. I want to tell you, I want to show you, I want to teach you, if only you'll steal me away.'_

Hermione is intelligent, almost as smart as he himself had been at her age. She can never be a match for him, though, for all her good grades and adventurous endeavors. She falls back too religiously on her books and the written word, lacking the creativity that allows others to make historic breakthroughs. She is not an inventor. She is not a discoverer. The only time she gets creative is for revenge: a fist to Draco Malfoy's overly pointy chin in the muggle fashion—the ultimate insult to a pureblood, the word SNEAK written across Marietta Edgecomb's face in fantastic purple pimples, leading Dolores Umbridge to near-death by way of centaur herd… and while that is all well and good, it just isn't enough if she can't put that creativity to work in other situations. And so, while she is a threat, she is only a threat through Harry Potter and not on her own.

If she can find the right mentor to cultivate her, she will make a vicious politician, even if she chooses to never lie, because she knows very well how to work the truth to her utmost advantage. It is a shame that she's so tightly attached to Potter. She would be an invaluable asset to Voldemort's side if he could just get his hands on her.

Tom doesn't believe he could ever convince her to go Dark, however. With her voracious appetite for knowledge, she might become Gray at best; she's too kind-hearted, her morals are too strong. She's too selfless and loving to go Dark. He sees in her a shadow of what he might have been had his life played out differently, had his mother not died, had his choices been different, had he not grown up during a World War. If anyone has the potential to divert him from his chosen path, it is probably Hermione Granger (though that will never, _ever_ happen).

He is thrilled when the Weasley boy walks out, suspicious and bitter, leaving her to cry endlessly. She is more vulnerable to his influence than ever, and, because the locket is an inanimate object dependent and influenced by the wearer's feelings, he is vulnerable to her influence, though she isn't aware of that and never will be.

'_He doesn't love you. He doesn't care for you, not like _I _do, Hermione.'_

However, no matter much he manages to make her bend, how often he makes her cry with torn despair and aching longing, she never, ever breaks. She never stands up and leaves Potter behind like Weasley did, despite his most seductive whispers. It is endlessly irritating, though admirable, and Tom has always loved a good challenge.

There's nothing that can describe his rage when Weasley returns. The Horcrux knows it's over before Weasley even lifts the Sword of Griffindor up. No matter what image he projects, Weasley will destroy it out of his petty jealousy. Tom was so close! So close to driving the three apart at last, only to be thwarted now! He was sure that Hermione had been on the razor's edge, just a few moments away from leaving Potter—Potter who has been so cold and bitter about his wand being snapped, and making Hermione feel more alone and unloved than ever. Tom would have spared her! If it were Hermione standing there preparing to destroy the locket, Tom knew he could persuade her not to, but can't persuade Weasley to spare him any more than he could persuade Potter.

It's a shame that, kilometers away, in his homunculus body, Lord Voldemort can't connect or communicate with his inanimate Horcruxes; things could have been so different if he had. If he'd only been more concerned about the shards of his soul instead of leaving a locket to rot in a cave for years and years.

There is passion and life in Hermione, _light_ burning in her eyes such as Lord Voldemort has never seen before until he witnesses her in person for the first time at the Battle of Hogwarts. When Harry Potter is laid, supposedly lifeless, at his feet she screams in disbelief. And he sees by looking at her that she _truly does not_ believe the boy is dead. Being Sorted into Griffindor may have robbed her of her chance for true greatness, but it _did_ give her something in return. Unshakable faith.

Voldemort has always known he would defeat Potter in the end, but watching Hermione's face now he can almost believe that everything she thinks is right will come to pass, that _he_ _will_ _fall_ and that those she loves will persevere and recover from his two-year reign of terror.

It is laughable that a person Lord Voldemort only knows through paper can have such an impact on him.

However, much to his horror and dismay, minutes after Harry Potter shows himself to still be alive, everything Hermione Granger hopes for and believes in is _coming to pass_. Lord Voldemort is _falling_ and the wand in his hand is turning on him, betraying him, _abandoning_ him for that upstart little _boy_, and all that he can see is a tunnel with a light at the end of it.

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_Author's Afterthoughts:_

_So, surprised? Unsurprised? True, Hermione and Voldemort have extremely little contact in the series, but there's no doubt that she affected him greatly simply by being friends with Harry Potter. By the end of Book 7, Harry would've been dead a dozen times over if not for her :)_

_My dear readers are, of course, welcome to take my concepts and adapt them to their own stories to their hearts content, but I am planning a Tomione that has Hermione seduced by the locket Horcrux and takes it to Lord Voldemort, so y'all know. Though it's a ways off from making it to the archives. So, so… take it if you must, but know that I'm right behind you! (clutches pillow possessively, glaring)_

_Don't take this off your alert lists just yet! There are a couple additional ladies coming up! Next week: Extras, Take One!_

_By the way, kudos to my friend BelletristWordSalad for "Author's Afterthoughts." Doesn't that sound classy? :D_

_Megii_


	8. Extra: Nagini: Lakshmi

Ladies Man: _Extras_

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**_Nagini—Lakshmi_**_ (for What-Ansketil-Did-Next)_

Nagini's origins are the same as every other viper in the jungle of the Indian subcontinent: she begins life as a humble, wild animal with exceptional hunting skills and even more exceptionally adept at avoiding larger predators that would hunt _her_. Humans are a common sight, dangerous bipedal animals, and in her youth she avoids them to the best of her ability until she is large enough to discover how delicious they are compared to common forest fare.

She is the largest snake that the local tribe has ever seen, fat on the flesh of pigs and wandering children, and as old as a fully grown man, so she was captured and has since been worshiped as a vessel of the serpent-goddess Manasa.

For the first few months of Nagini's capture she is kept caged so that she will not flee or kill the villagers in their sleep. They mean her no harm, and keep her bedded on an altar covered with fragrant orchids, lotus, and mango leaves, accompanied by daily offerings of food and incense. When they finally release her, she strikes and devours a young boy in retaliation before settling in her shrine and allowing them to worship and adore her. They both fear and love her. They approach on their knees, bowing until their foreheads touch the dirt, placing brown, roasted piglets before her, offering the corpses of their dead, and draping fine golden jewelry and brightly colored cloth across her enormous body. They love it when she sheds her skin, and drug her on fermented fruits and incense until the feelings of their hands tugging away at her peeling flesh is completely painless. They decorate everything with her skin: their doorways, their beds, and their clothes. She is a symbol of prosperity, fertility, and rebirth. With the guru's blessings and spells she grows even larger and stronger.

India has a wealth of snake charmers, and Nagini likes the men who come around and play lovely music for her and likes them even more when she gets to eat them, but a foreigner with a face like the moon completely enchants and intrigues her. He introduces himself as Voldemort. The snake charmers can communicate well enough with their pungi-flutes and swaying movements, but she has never before met a human who can speak as snakes do.

However, they only speak in brief passing. He is not interested in her; his focus is always on the tribe shaman and the magic the man knows. For the first time in a long time, she is dissatisfied. When she leaves her temple to go about the village, she circles and wanders until she finds him and then watches him when she thinks he isn't looking. He carries a thin, straight stick of wood that serves the same purpose as the shaman's enormous, gnarled staff, but Voldemort's is much more powerful despite its size. It reminds her of the way a newborn serpent is much more deadly than the adults in that the child cannot control the amount of venom he injects into his prey. Voldemort can do things with his wand that the guru has only dreamed of.

Much to her displeasure, Voldemort does not stay long. The tiny, tropical paradise has little to offer him, and he departs after less than two weeks. For several hours Nagini is inconsolable, and the villagers flee her shrine in throes of terror, several of them convulsing and dead, the flesh black where she'd bitten them.

Nothing can be the same after Voldemort, the little village is forever changed, or at least Nagini is. The village that has been her home, her nirvana for so long, now seems undesirable and dull. The great viper longs for movement, she misses the thrill of the hunt, the rush of power as she feels her prey thrash and die in her monstrous coils. She wishes to be wild again.

Nagini abandons her godhood to pursue the man with flesh the color of milk, and since the villagers would rather kill her than allow her to leave, she kills _them_, and the entire village, save for a sacred boy with a tail, rots in her wake.

Voldemort has not gone as far as she feared, and she tracks the scent of his footsteps easily. The people that she comes across shriek and run away at the very sight of her, abandoning laundry and livestock alike, and they grow in number the closer she gets to civilization. Snake charmers are sent to her, but she ignores them, snapping irritably at their black, bare feet when they try to follow her.

She finds him staying in the home of a wealthy nobleman, hovering over unraveled scrolls. His foreign face makes it difficult for her to determine his expression, but he smells unsurprised to see her hanging from the drapes that spread across the walls and ceilings like a mass of flowering vines. He looks up at her through golden wire and molded glass, his eyes the same black ichor color as his hair.

"_Salutations_," he hisses.

Nagini does not respond at first, tightening herself around the chandelier and tasting the air around him.

His lips thin and he sets his glasses aside, crossing his legs and extending one hand to beckon her. "_Come here, lovely one_." His fingers curl like pale leaves shuttering themselves away from the night.

She hesitates only a moment before descending, and the length of her body is so impressive that she can almost touch the ceiling and the floor simultaneously. As it is, her heavy weight forces her to drop a few feet, landing with a deep, resounding thud on the rugs below.

"_What do they call you?"_ He asks.

"_Nagini."_ She says then bows her enormous head abashedly.

It sounds pretty enough on both serpent and human tongue, but if he were a native speaker of Hindi then he would realize what a plain name it is, ordinary, and unimpressive. It is the simple, general word that means no more than "female naga." "Female cobra." Despite the fact that she is idolized and worshiped, there is nothing regal about her name. It is the name of a common serpent.

His long, white fingers press under her jaw and push her triangular head up until their eyes meet. His face is inhuman and hungry, and a demonic smile curves his thin lips. Her tongue flares out, and she tastes power and old, dark magic. The village shaman's flimsy sparks are nothing compared to this; this is so much _more_.

'This_ is a god_,' she thinks.

"_Goddess Nagini_," he hisses, clearly pleased. Very pleased. She stretches toward him. He says her name so wonderfully; from his mouth it sounds imperial, it sounds like the name of a real goddess, not that of a lowly viper with mortal flesh for scales instead of divine jade.

"_What would drive a goddess to follow after me, a mere passerby in her realm?_" He asks out of some twisted courtesy; he can guess full well why she has abandoned her throne.

The words spill out easily. "_I hate them. They worshipped me, but I was just as much their prisoner as their goddess. I long for the wilds, for my freedom; I miss the thrill of the hunt and kill. Their world was too tiny, too small minded. I've outgrown them like an old skin_," she gushes, "_You are the most powerful human I have ever encountered. The guru is a clumsy foal compared to you, for all his magics have allowed me to grow. I am drawn to your power."_

His lips are slightly parted, his eyes slightly narrowed, but she can smell the wonder on him.

"_Yes. Oh, yes, I _see," he breathes. His pale hand extends and strokes the scales of her neck, nails lightly scratching. His touch leaves tingling after-effects, and she is reminded of when the virgin girls would soak their hands in oil and bathe her, running their tiny, delicate, fleshy fingers along the length of her body. Scented oil, meant to dull her senses and keep her caged without the need for bars.

"_I believe I can grant your wish, lovely Nagini_," he says. It is the beginning of a beautiful relationship between monster and beast. He beckons her to lie across his shoulders, and when she does his eyes go wide with surprise and awe, and the little chair groans and buckles under the added weight. It brings a savage grin to his face, and when he stands with her and leaves the study room, the first servant that sees them shrieks and falls to her knees, spilling tea everywhere as she bows and babbles prayers, mistaking Voldemort for the god Shiva. The nobleman too takes it as a sign from heaven and goes to great lengths to provide Voldemort with the finest riches and luxuries.

They find quick companionship in one another, Nagini and Voldemort. He calls her a "kindred spirit" and grows fond of her, as he does not other humans. She is his confidant and most loyal comrade. He is her god, her father, her master, and her beloved. His strength gives her strength, allowing her to outgrow and outlive the common vipers she was born from. She sees the world and all its different smells and flavors.

At the height of his power and influence he keeps her mostly to himself, sequestering her away in his private chambers when he is traveling around Great Britain. She hates the cold and the wetness. When he is home, he struts around with her massive body draped around him as if he is Shiva again. From the way the other humans bow before him, it is clear to her that he pretty much _is_ an immortal trapped within mortal flesh, and in those days she does not understand why he does not choose to shed it and find divinity in death and rebirth.

Except that, in time, he _does_ die, and he _is_ reborn. There is an accident of some sort, and his immortal soul sheds his flesh body like an outgrown skin. With nothing to bind her to the island country any longer, she leaves it for warmer climates and sunny hillsides. Albania.

When Voldemort returns to her, she witnesses the truth of Hinduism with her own eyes. Her master is brought to her as a frail, sickly child, but his memories survived his reincarnation. He is still himself. She coddles and cares for him, keeping him close and warm within her layered, sinuous coils and layers of love. When his illness fluctuates and wreaks havoc on his tiny, bite-sized body, she gives him the milk of her venom until there is hardly a drop left in her. She is his mother, his confidant, his disciple, and his beloved. He grows strong on a diet of her body's deadly nectar.

Quickly, a plan begins to form and take shape like a hatchling growing within an egg, a plan that will restore her beloved master to his former glory, greater glory even. He won't be as he was before, the contributions of the blood and milk of animals has seen that his homunculus will be more than human, and in truth she finds herself eager to find out if he will take after her in appearance as he once took after his mortal parents.

"_Nagini, my lovely, my most precious one, come to me,_" he croons to her from over the body of Bertha Jorkins. A dark ritual has been prepared, and Nagini finds herself at the core of it, quivering with anticipation. It is primal and tribal, and reminds her of the old days when she was worshipped in the jungles of India.

His breath is shallow and shaky, and his arms are withered and frail, but his red eyes glow with the same power and determination that they possessed when she first saw him. _"Now, I shall make you a true goddess."_

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_Author's Afterthoughts:_

_A badly titled piece, considering this really has nothing to do with Lakshmi other than India and Hindu, but whatever. I couldn't help but want to obsessively stick to the "L" theme. I couldn't help myself! D:_

_I intended to write this from Tom's perspective like the main seven, but once I started I just had to write it from Nagini's eyes. She's just too irresistible and I was too eager to give her some juicy history. So, it's more about how Tom had affected Nagini than Nagini's affect on him (as you just read), and I expect the other extras will probably be the same. Besides, extra is _extra_, that means it doesn't have to follow the rules of the main course, yes? Yes._

_See you next week, snarklings!_

_Megii_


End file.
